The day we failed Azeroth
by Nyaar
Summary: We've just defeated the very last boss at the very last raid in Legion - and yet we fail to stop the Burning Legion's portal from opening. A short drabble about the fate of the heroes, and of Azeroth itself, once the Burning Legion really invades.


Note: Happens at the end of the Legion expansion. It's unbetaed, sorry.

We won, at last. With heavy casualties, with lots of pain and suffering. The demon lord falls to his face, but the portal he was opening would not close.

In front of our wide-open eyes, it blasts open with more strength than before, knocking us off our feet. A green ray of light hits the sky over our heads. Clouds gather. Light wanes. Everything turns dark–everything but the Legion, raining down flames and corruption as far as our eyes can see.

The paladin drop to their knees. The Light of many people fades all over the world, they say. The priest cannot move, eyes glued to the devastation in front of us. The Elements rage and fight to ultimately disperse in the void. We look at each other– we have failed Azeroth, and our failure will cost an unspeakable amount of lives.

The mage gathers us around them and produces a device from their robes. Kadghar gave it to them, they say, as a failsafe. It is a sort of beacon, a magic they do not understand but that will open a portal to somewhere safe. There are more distributed around the world, and hopefully some people would be able to evacuate to the Army of the Light's stronghold.

We huff and grunt just by contemplating retreat. Safe is far from what we want to be. What we need. We have FAILED, and that knowledge is a dagger on the guts. Everything is lost. All the effort, all we have done. We do not merit crossing that portal.

Several valkyrs come to us, their golden wings sparking every time the green rain hits them. Odyn and other keepers are at the entrance of the Halls of Valour, shielding the refugees the valkyrs were able to save. They have nowhere to go from there, they say, but the tower where we stand will collapse soon.

We look to each other and nod; there is no need for words after so many battles. If we can be of help one last time, bringing people to safety through that portal, we will.

They carry us in silence. The ground is charred and fel-green under us already, and it does not seem the Legion will be finished any time soon. Trees burn, animals jump around in flames, demons slaughter anything that gets in their path. Some of us would gladly jump and kill them, die fighting, even if it will be for nothing, but we are in this together, and we will end it together.

A ball of fire explodes in the distance. The Halls of Valour, the hunter says, their eyes keen even through the darkness. As if struck by lightning, the valkyrs gasp and plummet down. We fall with them, and some of us even welcome it. The ground gets closer and closer until it twirls. Magic thunders in the air.

We fall to the ground, aye, but not in Azeroth. That much is plain clear when we look around and see races we have never seen, humanoids and beasts. Kadghar waves and runs toward us, a device on his hand. There is only one explanation; we are at the Army of the Light's stronghold, and those creatures are survivors from worlds the Legion had destroyed.

Such disappointment.

The mage seems relieved. He thought he had lost us all, he says. Traced us with the mage's beacon. We remain silent. Failure weights heavy on our shoulders as we see Horde and Alliance mixed together, standing in a small square, looking at us. Lost. Grieving. All the power in our artefacts was for naught, all the sacrifices of our soldiers. Our cities, destroyed. Our people, dead on the hundred of thousands.

It's not long until the first spark of conflict ignites among the grieving, and it is a surprise when the anger is not directed towards us.

This is all your fault! You could have helped us! You never cared! You wanted all us dead!

Some agree, banding together looking for blood and revenge to mend their broken hearts. Some tried to stop them–they have lost too much already, they will not allow more unnecessary deaths. Yet others stay back, away from the conflict. They've fought enough, seen enough. They are the first ones to turn their back to the Alliance and the Horde and join the Army of the Light.

The leaders of the Army are so powerful the conflict stops when one of them raises a hand. Even if they are far from being an homogeneous group, they all share the same end goal; eliminate the Burning Legion. There is a choice to be made – form an Azerothian faction in the Army or join any of the ones already existing. There is much to be done if we wanted to survive as a group. Provisions are short, but they are willing to share–provided we are willing to fight. They have much to tell us, but we should decide what to do first.

The leaders of the Azeroth races discuss with us what is the best way forward. They're as lost as we are, their aspirations and dreams broken along the way, just like ours and our folk's. Most of them have lost their houses several times already, and even in the heartbreak, they offer ideas and solutions to rebuild. Fight back. Join the Army. Become more powerful. We have to survive.

We want to believe it, just as we have done so many times in the past, but it is not easy. The new planet does not feel like Azeroth. The Elements does not answer the shamans' pleads. The Light is tainted somehow, and paladins and priests feel completely lost and alone. Hunters, warriors and monks offer themselves to get food and supplies, just to be told their abilities and weapons are just not enough to survive out there. The few druids that survived are devastated by the loss of everything they knew and protected for so long, and cannot find solace in the new, charred world.

Kadghar tells us he has never seen magic such as the one in this place. There are no ley lines to tap, no arcane magic he can recognize. A spark of thrill grows in him, though. They need to adapt, and learn, and that is an adventure on its own. We envy him.

The warlocks and demon hunters are called by the Army to reinforce their defences as we decide – they can tap in their powers, though the influence of the fel is such that some lose control and are overrun by demons or burned to a crisp. The surviving demon hunters will not go anywhere without Illidan, though. They surround him like children, looking for a word of guidance. Some folk take steps towards them, rage and revenge burning in their hearts. They've given everything already and offer their souls to them in exchange of power. Again. There are horrified whispers, mistrust towards the ancient elven hunters by much part of the common folk. Illidan promises to accept them all on his ranks if they are ready for the last sacrifice, and agrees to help the Army.

Only a handful of DKs decided to leave the burning Azeroth. We hear tales of people that insisted them to come through the portal, and yet they rather stay behind and burn their hungry lives to a husk. The ones that remained are sitting on the ground, unable to take a step. The power of the Lich King has disappeared, and with it the flame that kept them moving. If they are to survive, they will need to find another source of power–which was a good way of starting business for others. The uncrowned have reorganized already and are looking for information and potential weaknesses to exploit in our new home– even if most members of the Army can see through their shadows and veils. It will take some time and skills to find a way to hide from all the goddamned light everywhere, and some contracts to be sign for profit and mutual help, too.

People start dragging their feet around. Many stand still in front of us, hoping to find some guidance, some hope to guide them. When we crossed that portal and left Azeroth in flames we thought our time leading was over. Most of us feel humble. They do not turn their backs on us even if we failed.

The leaders of the races discuss how to settle and where. The Army suggest anyplace near the stronghold, so it can be defended. Even if we carry our race in our hearts it does not bother us much, though. We have other things on our mind –how to get better, how to thrive in this hostile environment, how to be useful again–, and we must see to that first. There are other people more capable of building and taking care of the population, but we promise to lend a hand as we can, when we can, even if in our own interests.

The world outside the stronghold seems inhabitable, ridden by storms and fel rain. It's dead, much like our world. Much like we feel inside. But as a lightning strikes on the green sky, we feel a flame burning inside. Revenge. Justice.

We may be different. We may not share the same ideals. But we are sure of something; the Burning Legion will pay.

* * *

Note2: Sorry if the Horde doesn't feel represented –I only play Alliance. In any case, I'd love to see this as a premise for the next expansion / new wow game. Start from scratch somehow, in a different place. Rebuild. Create new cities, build them actively. Feel humble and at the bottom of the chain, explore new worlds as we fight the Legion across the space. Find new Azeroths, establish in other worlds… dunno. Probably impossible, but that's why we're here, right?


End file.
